“Keep the binder under your arm,” I told him, checking the zipper. “Stay behind my right elbow. Whatever Vance says to the people inside, you do not answer him. You look at the clerk, and you tell them your name and your birthday. Nothing else. ”
“I’m ready, Julian,” Toby said. His chin was trembling, but his eyes were fixed on the steel security door.
We stepped out into the freezing slush. The side receiving door was unlatched, held open an inch by a rubber wedge to let a thick power cable run inside. I shoved the steel panel back and pushed Toby into the corridor ahead of me.
The building smelled of commercial floor bleach, isopropyl alcohol, and the dry, metallic heat of electric industrial blowers. At the end of the narrow concrete hallway sat a sliding Plexiglas partition marked Intake & Family Logistics. Behind the glass stood a gray-haired man in a brown shop coat holding a clipboard, speaking to Vance.
Vance had his overcoat unbuttoned, his briefcase open flat on the counter. He was tapping the gold nib of a fountain pen against a yellow carbon manifest.
“—the statutory waiver from Mercer County has already cleared probate review, Mr. Renfro,” Vance was saying, his voice perfectly smooth, reasonable, and brisk. “The family desires an immediate summary disposition without ceremonial viewing. The county transit slip carries the deputy coroner’s emergency release. If your shift supervisor needs the certified registry seal, I have the escrow deposit right here in cash. ”
“State environmental guidelines require a four-hour cold-stage hold on unautopsied juvenile cases, Mr. Miller,” the clerk replied, turning a page on his clipboard. “Even with a Section Twelve-B transit voucher, the regional medical examiner’s office has to confirm the waiver of toxicological retention before we cycle the primary gas valves. ”
“The medical examiner waived retention at six this morning,” Vance said, sliding an envelope across the counter. “Look at line seven. That’s Deputy Coroner Miller’s signature. Harold Miller Diesel is paying the rush fee. ”
I stepped forward, my heavy work boots squeaking against the wet linoleum.
“Harold Miller didn't pay you a nickel, Vance,” I said.
Vance froze. The fountain pen stopped in mid-air above the yellow carbon. He turned around slowly, his shoulders square, his eyes narrowing as he took in my grease-blackened canvas jacket, the flashlight in my left hand, and Toby standing right beside my hip.
For half a second, something raw and ugly flickered behind Vance’s eyes—the startled shock of a man who realized the dead had walked through his locked door. Then the polished Chicago veneer snapped back into place.
“Julian,” Vance said, lowering his voice into a sharp, threatening hiss. “What are you doing here? You drove forty miles in a blizzard to cause a scene in a licensed medical facility? Take the boy back to the truck before I have the county sheriff take custody of him for truancy. ”
“He isn't going anywhere,” I said.
I stepped straight up to the Plexiglas window, set Dad’s red vinyl ledger flat on the counter, and dropped Mrs. Gable’s printed Mercer County intake sheet right on top of Vance’s open briefcase.
The clerk, Mr. Renfro, blinked through his thick bifocals, looking between Vance and me. “Excuse me. This area is restricted to licensed funeral directors and designated estate representatives. ”
“I am Julian Miller,” I said, keeping my voice level, hard, and clear. “My father was Harold Miller, owner of Miller Diesel & Towing on Route Nine. This is my brother, Toby Miller. He is fourteen years old. He was born on June 14, 2012, at Mercer County General Hospital. ”
I pulled Toby by the shoulder until he stood directly under the fluorescent tube above the counter.
“Look at him, Mr. Renfro,” I said. “Read the name on the transit voucher Vance just asked you to burn. ”
Renfro looked down at the yellow manifest on his clipboard. His fingers tightened on the aluminum frame. He read the top line, then slowly lifted his eyes to look at Toby’s face, tracing the boy’s freckled nose, the brown hair plastered with melting snow, and the green canvas binder clutched against his chest.
“Toby Miller,” Renfro whispered, reading the sheet. “Section Twelve-B. Juvenile male. Deceased November 10. ”
“He isn't dead,” I said. “He was sitting in the hallway at the Mercer County courthouse two hours ago while Vance tried to make me sign an estate partition claiming Toby died three weeks ago in a ditch fire. ”
Vance didn't back down. He stepped between me and the counter, his broad chest blocking the clerk’s view of the ledger.
“Mr. Renfro, pay no attention to this,” Vance said, his voice rising in volume, tight and authoritative. “My late brother suffered from severe paranoid delusions before his fatal infarction, and his sons have inherited his instability. This older boy is attempting an illegal extortive intervention because he faces eviction from commercial property owned by my corporate entity. The juvenile before you is not Toby Miller. He is an undocumented shop apprentice my brother took in from the rail yard last spring. ”
Toby gasped, taking half a step back, his eyes going wide with pure hurt. “Uncle Vance, I’m Toby! You bought me that fishing rod for my twelfth birthday at the lake! ”
“Be quiet, young man,” Vance barked, pointing a rigid finger at Toby’s chest. “Do not speak to me. ”
“He doesn't need to speak to you,” I said, stepping directly into Vance’s space until my shoulder shoved his arm aside. I laid Dad’s red ledger open to the bank reconciliation tab and flipped to the back cover, exposing Harold’s heavy penciled handwriting directly beneath the First National Bank demand notice.